Reverently the two men tiptoed to the bedside. Thornton laid a shaking hand on the drop light. “She must have been reading and fallen asleep,” he muttered between twitching lips. “She didn’t know that the light is always blown out after eleven o’clock in this room.”
Awestruck, Douglas gazed down at the silent figure. No need to feel pulse or heart; to the most casual observer the woman was dead.
“Who—who—is it?” demanded a quivering voice behind them. Both men wheeled about to find Eleanor, white-lipped and trembling, standing there. She had stolen into the room without attracting their attention.
Douglas leaned forward and raised the strands of hair gently from the cold face.
“Annette!” Eleanor’s trembling lips could hardly form the whisper; she swayed backward, and Douglas caught her as she fell.
CHAPTER XVII
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
“WHERE’S Brett?” asked Thornton, coming hurriedly into the library, where Douglas was seated at the telephone. The latter hung up the receiver before answering.